Inside the half-collapsed kitchen, wedged between a scorched cabinet and the wall, sat a small boy, no more than five.
His hair was matted with soot, and his pajamas clung to him like wet paper.
His tiny shoulders shook with every ragged breath.
He was whispering something at first, but as I stepped closer, his voice cracked open into a full scream:
“I killed my mommy!”
No one dared reach for him.
Every time someone tried, he flinched so violently they feared he’d break.
The firefighters had fought flames.
This boy was fighting himself.
Why They Called Me
Most people in town knew me as the biker who helped out at accident scenes.
Some knew about my volunteer work with the fire department.
A few knew bits and pieces of my past.
But almost no one knew everything.
Certainly not this little boy named Marcus — not yet.
I didn’t walk toward him like the others did.
I didn’t crouch beside him or stretch out a hand.
